She’ll walk into the meeting first. Alone.
Dressed in black and silence. Hair loose, wild like smoke curling from the mouth of a gun. A woman carved from myth, bloodlines, and something far more dangerous—choice.
She’ll wear a bulletproof vest beneath. Fitted. Custom-cut to her frame. Lightweight, but reinforced. Not to shield her femininity, to protect the last thing in this world that still feels like salvation.
Strapped to her thigh beneath the slit of her dress: a pistol. Sleek. Loaded. Hers.
She asked for it without blinking.
I gave it to her without hesitation.
Because she’s not walking in there to be pitied.
She’s walking in to disturb the peace they thought they controlled. He thought he controlled.
Her presence alone will be the strike.
Her name, her face, the unmistakable fire in her gaze, she is proof. That Lorenzo lied. That he took what wasn’t his. That he hid blood that outranked his own.
And while she walks...
I will ensure no one lays a hand on her.
The snipers upstairs will have every finger in the room locked in their sights.
Sawyer’s stationed at the exit, watching her back through an earpiece linked to Ada.
Karpov has eyes on the comms, any movement outside the room, any breath that shifts the tension, we’ll hear it before it happens.
I will stand just beyond the chamber doors.
One breath away.
One second behind.
The moment someone twitches wrong—
The Devil will walk in.
And he will not walk out until every man who looked at her the wrong way is dead.
She thinks this is a role.
But this isn’t a performance.
This is war.
And she’s the queen entering first, while I prepare to burn the board.
Sawyer is here because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I told him to stay back, he just said:
“If you think I’m letting you walk her into that pit without me on the edge, I’ll shoot you in the leg and carry you there myself.”
I could respect that.
He’s not here for the Bratva.
He’s here for her.
